The Confessor
by Gunlord500
Summary: The history of Jugdral is filled with holy men of courage and zealous faith. Bishop Palmark was not one of them. Here is an account of his unhappy and unexceptional life and career.
1. A Duke's Confession

**The Confessor**

_::Introductory Notes::_

Hey guys! I don't think most of y'all were expecting this, eh? Yeah, it's true, I haven't written much about Jugdral, except for a request, but I've had notes for this fic sitting around for a looooong time and I wanted to get it out. There are 4 other things I want to complete before bidding adieu entirely to Fire Emblem (Wayward Son, The Last Red Shoulder, another WS sidestory, and completing a Puppet's History—should take me about a year, year and a half at most), so now that this is done I'll continue with those. Also, FE4 was the first FE game I ever beat, so I guess I have a *little* sentimental attachment to it and wanted to write my own fic for it in addition to my brother-man utdfan22's request (you should all read his fics, BTW). Okay, just a quick note for the reader:

All names come from the translated script on Serenes Forest, NOT Awakening. I.E it'll be Cuan rather than Quan, Eltshan rather than Eldigan, and so on. This isn't intended as a jab at Awakening or anything, it's for the sake of consistency. Since Palmark himself hasn't been given an "official" name from NOA yet, I thought it would be confusing if I called him Palmark while using NOA names for everyone else, especially if he does show up in Awakening DLC at some point and they change his name. Thus, I took *all* the names from a single source, and the script on Serenes was the most convenient. Please don't feel insulted, Awakening fans, I just wanna make things as easy on my readers as possible. ^^

Anyways, enough talk. On with the show!

**Chapter 1: A Duke's Confession**

Truth be told, Father Palmark didn't like his job much. He certainly knew he should have been _very_ thankful for it; few ecclesiastical positions were nicer than the one he occupied right now as the personal priest of Duke Victor of Velthomer. Yes, his short brown hair, youthful, twenty-three year old face, and modest blue surplice would not have seemed out of place on any other low-ranked priest in Jugdral, but the size of his personal coffers indicated he was a great deal more fortunate than the typical Edda clergyman. However, as he sat impatiently waiting for his master in the small confessional of Castle Velthomer's small chapel, Victor's tardiness reminded him of the fact that his appointment was more of an insult than an honor.

The great houses of Grandbell differed in their histories, traditions, and most importantly bloodlines, so it naturally came as no surprise that their rulers took very different approaches to their personal lives and had very different attitudes towards religion. Some, like Dukes Vylon and Ring of Chalphy and Jungby, were pious and upright men who sincerely believed in the teachings of Blagi and His church of Edda. On the other hand, others such as Langobalt and Leptor of Dozel and Freege were entirely unconcerned with faith. They paid only lip service to King Azmur's edict that his loyal retainers should serve the Gods as well as their Lord. Every master of a great house was required by law to have a personal priest who would serve as both their liaison to Edda and their personal spiritual guide, but men such as Leptor obeyed the law only to the letter. They never attended Mass, they never sought guidance from their priests, and, obviously, they never accepted the sacrament of Confession more than the bare minimum of once a year. Even that annuity was marked by nothing more than a brief, lazy description of the most venial of venial sins, such as waking up late in the mornings or swearing.

For obvious reasons, they never told their confessors of their far more serious transgressions—the mortal sins of adultery and graft, theft and deceit. Ironic that men such as Vylon partook of the sacrament when they had so little to confess, whereas men such as Leptor confessed so little and needed the sacrament more than any other.

To Palmark's lasting annoyance and sadness, Duke Victor was cut of the same cloth as Leptor and Langobalt.

Palmark never even saw him more than once a year—he spent virtually all his time at the seediest bordellos and taverns, despite being married to one of the loveliest maidens in all of Jugdral, Dame Cigyun. It was common knowledge that he was a gleeful adulterer and very much breaking his wife's heart, but he never evinced the slightest contrition for his excesses. Instead, during the two times he had seen Palmark, he had only "confessed" to the sins of being "excessively charitable" (at his wife's behest, he had donated one hundred gold to a local orphanage) and "spoiling his son" (he had bought Alvis a cheap Iron Sword for the lad's sixth birthday, despite the fact that he was training in magic, not swordplay). He had worn the same gleeful expression on his face that made Palmark want to punch him—the sort of expression that said, "I know I'm a terrible man, and you do too—but I don't care, I'm not going to admit it to you, _and there's nothing you can do about it_."

And, of course, Palmark had done nothing.

That was why he'd been given this position, after all. The great lords of Grandbell may have been required to keep a priest whether they liked it or not, but they had some say in the sort of holy man they received. Victor had specifically asked Edda for someone quiet and unobtrusive, and the higher clergy saw that Palmark was a perfect fit. That was what galled him, and that was why he found his comfortable, well-compensated office so frustrating: By declaring him suited for a man like Victor, Palmark's overseers had essentially told him he was a weak-willed, lukewarm, and servile bureaucrat rather than the zealous defender of the faith he had always hoped he'd be. And the fact he'd never stood up to Victor proved them right, which galled him even more.

But, as it turned out, Palmark would find today's confession to be far more traumatizing than insulting.

He resisted the urge to sigh (though he did so inwardly) when he heard the door to the chapel open and heavy footsteps stagger to the confessional, followed by the distinct odor of cheap liquor wafting from the other side of the screen. Palmark grimaced—wine was yet another of Victor's vices he gleefully enjoyed; the boorish noble loved alcohol as much as women and seemed to flaunt his lack of temperance. But, as usual, it was something Palmark simply had to tolerate.

"I'm glad you came to see me today, Lord Velthomer," said Palmark, as amiably and respectfully as he could—and he loathed himself for masking the disgust he wished to express. "Receiving your request for Confession was a pleasant surprise!" It may not have been pleasant, but it was a surprise—Victor had his required yearly confession two months ago, so Palmark hadn't been expecting to see him 'till next year.

"Mmm," came the slurred, half-drunken voice from the other side of the screen. "Ye…yes. I've gots…I've got…some-something important to tell you today, Father."

A chill suddenly ran through Palmark's spine. He got the distinct impression that there was something wrong with Victor today. Very, very wrong.

But he wasn't sure, so he didn't say anything. He merely began the ritual as he was trained to do, as he always did. "Then please, speak to me, my son."

With a deep breath, Victor began.

"_Shegnen Shie mich Vater, den—hic! ish habe gesündigt."_

As was proper and required—and somewhat impressive in his drunken state—Victor was speaking in the Old Tongue. His words meant, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Palmark, therefore, responded in kind:

_Alle wir haben sündigten, denn wir sind alle menschlich. Lassen Sie Ihre Sünden und in den Namen der Götter und der Kreuzfahrer, sie wird verziehen zu._

"We have all sinned, for we are all human. Admit your sins, and in the names of the Gods and the Crusaders, they shall be forgiven."

"Father Pa…lmark, I'm an adulterer and a whoremonger, a drunkard and a thug. I…hic! I've mistreated my son and dishonored my marriage bed…"

He stopped suddenly, as if he was thinking of what to say next, and Palmark was taken aback, struck speechless. Had Victor experienced a revelation? Was he trying to repent for his sins? Did he finally wish to change his path? What a glorious day for the faith! Perhaps the Gods had intended Palmark's appointment to be an opportunity, not an affront. Excitedly, the young priest said, "I understand all this, son. Your sins are indeed grave, but don't worry! The forgiveness of the beneficent Gods is limitless. There is always time to make amends. If you truly wish to repent—"

Victor laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "No, father. 'S too late for that. 'specially when everyone else has sinned worse!"

"W…what do you mean?"

He laughed again, "I'm a cuckold, too. That's what! My wife an' Prince Kurth, they… they've…" A laugh that sounded like it was a sob.

"I…uh…" Palmark felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. A scandal of this nature and seriousness? His time in the seminary had _definitely_ not prepared him for this. "It…this is terrible, but, ah, not unsolvable. First, you must be reconciled with your wife, and then Prince Kurth, and—"

"Pfah! No…hic, no reconshiliashun for me, Father! I jus' came here because I wanted to confess one last sin. Jus' in case Gehenna really does exist. Figered a lil' insurance couldn't hurt!"

"Son, what are you—"

"Forgive me, Gods above, for committing the most mortal sin: Self-murder!"

The blood in Palmark's veins froze as he heard a most terrible noise coming from the other side of the screen. "Lord Victor!" he yelled, "_Lord Victor?!"_

He leapt to his feet, slammed out of his compartment, and opened the small but ornate wooden door which led to the parishioner's compartment.

The first thing he noticed was blood. So much blood.

The Duke of Velthomer, direct descendant of _Kreuzfahrerin Fala_, lay slumped against his seat in the confessional, a thick stream of red oozing from the ragged cut he had torn through his own throat. The weapon with which he had killed himself—a small ceremonial dagger—lay discarded on the floor, just below his limp, motionless right hand. Below his left lay a scrap of paper which Palmark assumed to be his suicide note.

The confessor stood still for a moment, not entirely comprehending the horrific scene in front of him. When it finally registered, he took a step back.

And then he began to scream.

_::Linear Notes::_

Victor, Alvis' father, was said in the Designer's Notes to kill himself. The mangas offer differing interpretations of how it happened, so I decided to put my own spin on it.


	2. A Cadet's Confession

**A Cadet's Confession**

"Segnen Sie mich Vater, den ich habe gesündigt."

Palmark smiled as he heard Sigurd shift uncomfortably on the other side of the screen and nodded reassuringly, though he knew the young trainee couldn't see it. Instead, he calmly replied,

"Alle wir haben sündigten, denn wir sind alle menschlich. Lassen Sie Ihre Sünden und in den Namen der Götter und der Kreuzfahrer, sie wird verziehen zu."

"Alright. Geez, this is embarrassing…" Sigurd shifted again. "Father, I…I cheated on a test."

"Which test? And how so?"

"We had an examination on battle tactics the day before yesterday, and…well, I just didn't study! I guess I spent too much time hangin' with Cuan and Eltshan. So when the day came, I was caught flat-footed! As it so happens, I was sitting behind Rendall—smartest guy in our class, and I could just manage to see what he was writing down. So…"

Palmark nodded. "I see. Thank you for telling me, son. Cheating on a test is not the most grievous sin, and not unforgivable. However, it can lead to much worse down the line. You must root out this bad habit before getting too used to it. First, Sigurd, I recommend you meet with Rendall and tell him what you have done. Seek his forgiveness foremost, for it was his hard work you took advantage of."

"Alright, can do."

"Secondly, tell your teacher what you did and seek his forgiveness as well. Re-take the test if you have to."

"What?! Come on, that's a little too much, isn't it?"

"Sigurd, the lords of Barhara's military academy do not give these tests just to annoy their students. It's important you truly learn what they are trying to teach you. You will lead men on the battlefield, someday. That is your destiny as a knight and a descendant of Baldo. Failure to learn tactics now may lead to your defeat and the death of your men in the future. That is why you should re-take that test and truly master its subject. It may be an inconvenience, and it may be embarrassing, but it will surely pay off in the future."

The teenage cadet sighed. "Okay, you made your point…I'll do as you ask, Father."

"Good. Now, to make your peace with the Gods, I want you to say ten rosaries to Lord Zedek and His Crusader Blagi, for they oversee justice and honesty across the land of Jugdral. I also recommend praying to Lord Gwaihyr and His Crusader Sety, for the wisdom to perform better on the test when you retake it. And, of course, give proper offerings to Highlord Naga and SaintHeim as well."

Sigurd sighed, but he accepted what he had to do. Palmark smiled—again glad the youth couldn't see him—and said the words of Edda's Rite of Absolution:

_Ich habe Ihre Busse gehört, und die Götter haben sie durch mich gehört. Mögen sie Ihnen Entschuldigung und Frieden geben, und ich spreche Sie von Ihren Sünden, in den Namen der Götter und der Kreuzfahrer._

"I have heard your penance, and the Gods have heard it through me. May they give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins, in the names of the Gods and the Crusaders."

"Phew!" Sigurd let out a deep breath. "Thanks for the absolution, and the advice, Father. I feel better now, really. I'll tell Eltshan and Cuan I can't meet 'em for drinks tomorrow…they'll be disappointed, but they ought to understand. They've been getting worried about my marks too. Thanks again!"

Palmark heard Sigurd exit the compartment, and he settled back in his seat, his smile of satisfaction growing wider.

Yes indeed, he _much_ preferred this appointment to his previous one.

It had been ten years since he'd witnessed Lord Victor's suicide. When the castle guards of Velthomer had heard his screams and came across the bloody scene, they'd almost accused him of murder and killed him on the spot before one of them noticed the Duke's suicide note. After an experience like that, he was almost willing to resign from the clergy entirely…but practical concerns had stopped him. He had no real skills or talents aside from being an avid reader and quite good with a staff. He could have entered a magic academy, but wizards were mainly used for war in this day and age, and he hadn't the least desire to kill his fellow man. He had thus begged his superiors for a lower-key assignment, and Edda had obliged, sending him to one of the castle-city Barhara's parishes where its famous military academy was located.

To say he was happier now would be an understatement. At first, he had been wary, expecting the worst. But it turned out the both the students and the teachers of the military academy were genuine believers, not trashy fakes like Victor. The staff of the academy sincerely cared about the future of their country and teaching the youth well. The cadets, at least those old enough to begin taking Confession (after the age of 14, as Sigurd and his friends were) were for the most part earnest and enthusiastic, willing to challenge themselves and eager to meet the expectations of their famous parents. There were exceptions, surely, but for the most part, Palmark felt he finally had an opportunity to do some real good for people, both as a confessor and in his other capacities as a parish priest. It seemed to him that those who took part of the Sacrament, like Sigurd, were truly contrite and appreciated his advice.

The smile did not leave Palmark's face as he heard the tramping of steps towards the confessional and the opening and closing of its small wooden door. Whoever this next parishioner was, Palmark was certain he would be able to help with whatever problems they might have. Because, for the first time in years, the confessor felt as if his faith were true.

_::Linear Notes::_

Rendall is a reference to Knight King Rendall from Dark Souls. Gwaihyr is a reference to the big eagle from LOTR.


	3. A Holy Knight's Confession

**The Confessor**

**Chapter 3: A Holy Knight's Confession**

When he heard the knock on the door to his personal quarters in Castle Zaxon, Father Palmark couldn't help but be a bit annoyed. It may have been early spring, but Silesia was still cold at this time of year, especially at night, and he had just gotten comfortable. He'd wrapped himself up in the rich, thick furs the army had given him, lit the small lamp on his large wooden desk, and was getting ready to open up his worn-out copy of _The Analects of Blagi_ before he'd heard his caller. Still, he realized that duty could call at any moment in his situation, so with a heavy sigh, he extricated himself from the blankets on top of his lavish leather grandchair and walked up to open his door.

Standing there was young Oifey, the fourteen-year-old squire of his commander, the Holy Knight Sigurd.

"Father, Sir Sigurd requests your presence."

"I understand. Thank you, Oifey." Sighing, Palmark closed the door behind him and allowed the lad to lead him up to the top floor of the castle, where the commander's suite was located. Aside from having golden hinges and being a bit larger than Palmark's door, it wasn't that different. Oifey opened it, ushered Palmark in, bowed, and promptly closed it behind him, realizing that the priest and his parishioner needed some privacy.

"Father," Sigurd smiled when he and Palmark were alone. The war—along with recent events—had told on him heavily, Palmark noticed. His blue hair, though it had never been neat in the first place, seemed disheveled and lifeless. His equally blue eyes, which had once been clear and determined, now seemed tired and weary. And his striking face, with its distinctively angular jaw, seemed pale and haggard. His body itself, however, seemed as fit as ever. A warrior like him couldn't allow the strain of his personal life to affect his performance in battle, after all.

"You called for me, my son?"

"Yeah." Sigurd ran a hand through his hair, seeming a little embarrassed—indeed, he seemed just as awkward as the cadet he'd been ten years ago at Barhara's military academy, when they'd first met. Upon graduating and becoming a full-fledged knight, Sigurd had specifically asked for Palmark to be his personal priest while his father Vylon was away at war, and Palmark had been more than happy to oblige. Sigurd had struck him as a good and worthy man since their first meeting when the youth was a cadet, and Palmark was happy to serve him now that he had become a true Holy Knight. Ever since he had been with Sigurd every step of the way, to Verdane, Agustria, and now Silesia. He didn't fight—he had no skill in battle whatsoever, and he was old—but he healed soldiers where he could, and ministered to their spiritual needs, though Lady Adean, Sir Noish, and his own superior, Father Claude, were the only ones aside from Sigurd who visited him very often.

"Father Palmark," continued Sigurd, "I…I want to make confession."

"Are you sure, son?" As usual, Palmark smiled reassuringly. "You are a pious man and an honorable warrior. I very much doubt you have committed any sins, even venial ones."

"Please, Your Holiness…"

"Alright." Sigurd knelt, repeating the ancient words:

"Segnen Sie mich Vater, den ich habe gesündigt."

In response, Palmark placed a hand on the knight's forehead, and spoke his own part of the rite:

"Alle wir haben sündigten, denn wir sind alle menschlich. Lassen Sie Ihre Sünden und in den Namen der Götter und der Kreuzfahrer, sie wird verziehen zu."

Sigurd clasped his hands over his chest, and without hesitation, recounted his sins—at least, those he thought he'd committed.

"I'm a failure as a husband and a knight, Father."

Palmark remained silent. He merely gestured for Sigurd to go on.

"I've failed so many times. I couldn't save King Batou, or Eltshan. Mahnya…she died 'cause I couldn't lead, too. And most of all…Diadora…" He shut his eyes, and Palmark could see tears falling from his face. "Diadora…I couldn't protect her…I couldn't save my own wife. I have no idea what happened to her, or if she's even still alive…what kind of husband am I? What kind of knight am I? I promised to protect her, and look what happened. I…I'm a failure, Father. Gods forgive me…"

Palmark hesitated for a moment. He was, as he had to admit to himself, not a paragon of the faith, either. And he had precious few successes to his name as well. Yet when all was said and done, he was still a priest of the holy Church of Edda, and he had a job to do. So he would do it to the best of his ability. Thus, he rested a hand on Sigurd's head, and as reassuringly as he could, stated what he sincerely believed was true.

"Fear not, son. The Gods will forgive you. I am sure of it."

"Father…?"

"You have not been able to save everyone, Sir Sigurd. But even the blessed Crusaders were unable to do that. They lost loved ones in the struggle against the Lopt Sect. They were, after all, only human…just like you.

"But for all their losses, they won in the end, and brought salvation to the entire continent—that is far more people than they failed. The same applies to you, Sigurd. You have led your army to victory, and brought peace to Grandbell. Leptor and Langobalt lie dead, and Alvis himself is holding a grand celebration at Barhara to praise your accomplishments. Despite all the sacrifices you have endured, the innocent blood that has been spilt, you have remained loyal to your king and steadfastly carried out your duty as best you were able. As long as he can say that, a Holy Knight can never truly be a failure."

"But…Diadora…"

"You cannot blame yourself, Sigurd. I have heard Shanan's account as well, that she was spirited away by an evil magician with fell power. There is nothing you could have done. And he didn't kill her, right? If he wanted her dead, he would have simply destroyed her, and likely Shanan as well. She must still be alive…which means there must be hope. Do not destroy that hope by condemning yourself rather than the dark forces which are truly responsible."

"I…heh, I guess so. Thanks, Father…talking to you's always helped me see clearly, ever since I was a cadet." He wiped his eyes, and gave Palmark a genuine smile. It was a weak, wan one, but the first he had seen in a long time, as if just a little weight had been lifted from his lord's shoulders. "I'd better get some rest, then…got a big day tomorrow."

"Certainly so, Sir Sigurd. In fact, Alvis might be able to help you in the search for Diadora! With all the resources of Grandbell at his command, no villains can hide from his justice for long. He will reunite you with your wife, I'm certain of it!"

The Holy Knight nodded again, and Palmark bowed and made a quick exit, knowing his work for today was done. He was smiling now, too, his irritation at having been interrupted completely disappeared. He didn't even mind that the lamp he'd left on his desk before attending Sir Sigurd had almost run out—he'd be doing no more reading tonight. When he returned to his room, he simply changed out of his clerical robes into his softer, lighter sleeping ones, doused the tiny, flickering flame of the lamp, and then set himself to bed.

He would have no problems getting to sleep tonight, for he was looking forward to a great deal tomorrow.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say about this chapter except…dat foreshadowing…;_; Also, I'm mentioning this in my other stories, but check out my blog at .com. There's only one entry up ATM, and it's kinda general about fanfiction, but in a little while I'll post some "behind the scenes" stuff, particularly an unused rough draft of a future chapter of this fic. :D


	4. A Betrayer's Confession

**The Confessor**

**Chapter 4: A Betrayer's Confession**

"Father Palmark, Lord Alvis wishes to see you."

Palmark didn't respond. He was in no mood to. Yes, he had been given one of the most resplendent suites in Barhara Palace, and he had been treated very well by Alvis' staff. As they had repeatedly told him, he was simply a holy man and was responsible for none of the crimes Sigurd and his army committed. That was why he was still alive. But despite these courtesies, he could not drive the images of yesterday's atrocities out of his mind. What was supposed to be a day of celebration, a reward for all of Sigurd's hard work, had been turned into a massacre! For transgressions he couldn't possibly have committed!

A part of Palmark wished he had died with Sigurd, instead of simply being accosted and imprisoned with all the other servants and support staff of Sigurd's army. Only a small part, as he did not wish to share the fate of suicides such as Victor. But that small part had been enough to keep him from doing anything more than staying in his quarters and mourning.

At least until today.

"Father, please." The woman's voice was gentle, but also firm and insistent. "I understand your feelings, but Lord Alvis was only performing his duties. I know you don't want to believe your commander was a traitor, but the evidence is overwhelming. Alvis needs as much information as possible in order to discern what really happened and to keep a tragedy like this from happening again. For the good of the Kingdom, and in the name of the Gods, can you not put aside your personal emotions and help him?"

The appeal to his faith was enough to finally sway the priest. He didn't say anything but did get to his feet, allowing the woman—General Aida, judging by her red hair—to lead him to Alvis' personal quarters. Oifey had done just the same thing a few days ago, he thought to himself bitterly. Where was the lad now? He could only hope Oifey had escaped his lord's fate.

It didn't take long at all to reach Alvis' room, despite the large size of the grand palace. Aida ushered him in and promptly left without even having to be told—she knew her master very well. Palmark was left alone with the man who had killed his commander.

Alvis snapped shut the tome he was reading—not the holy Falaflame book, Palmark noted relievedly, which had been used to slay Sigurd—and stood up from his chair. He was a tall, handsome man, dressed in the finest black gilded robes, with a luxurious mane of long red hair framing a face with aquiline features and equally red, piercing eyes. Those eyes were the most striking thing about Alvis. They seemed to peer past whatever they were looking at, towards some unfathomable goal their owner was obsessed with. And right now they were focused on Palmark.

The priest shrank before that gaze, torn between fear, anger, and sadness. Fear of the most powerful man on Jugdral, anger at he who had killed an innocent man, and sadness, because he knew what Aida said was right—Alvis was a just and upright man, entirely unlike his father, and had served the Kingdom honestly and valiantly. It had to have been some maleficent plot from a third party that had made him and Sigurd enemies rather than allies.

"Thank you for attending me, Reverend. I understand this is a trying time for you, which is why I am all the more grateful for your cooperation." His voice was smooth, deep, and quite sympathetic. Even so, Palmark would give him nothing so easily.

"W-what do you want from me? Sigurd, your so-called "traitor" is already dead. What else can you do? You've nothing to gain from me! Let me mourn in peace!"

"If that is truly your desire, I won't force you to do otherwise. But, Your Holiness, I need something from you. Something I do not believe any other man on Jugdral could possibly provide."

"What are you talking about? I-I'm nothing but a humble servant of the Gods, utterly unexceptional in every other respect. I have nothing to give you!" This was quite true—he knew very well he had not served Sigurd particularly well, or anyone else, for that matter. After all this time, he had done nothing to disprove Edda's original assessment of him, which had first sent him to Lord Victor's employ.

"You served under both my father and Sigurd, yes? This makes you the only person I wish to entrust with this request."

"W…what is it?"

"I wish to make confession, father."

Now this took Palmark by surprise. Alvis was an honest civil servant who respected religion, but he was not known for being exceptionally pious.

"That is all I ask of you. I know you must hate me for what I did for Sigurd. But if you could provide the sacrament to a man like my father, can you not do so for me as well?"

Once again, the appeal to his faith won him over. "Fine, Lord Alvis. I will hear your confession."

"And you will be bound to secrecy, yes?"

"Eh?"

"The Seal of Confession. This rite is between the confessor, the parishioner, and the Gods. No-one else will hear what I have to say, and Edda's clergy is strictly forbidden from divulging it. Will you keep your vows?"

"The church is all I have. I told no one of Victor's confessions, so I will tell none of yours."

"I'm glad to hear that." Alvis knelt, and began the ritual.

"Segnen Sie mich Vater, den ich habe gesündigt."

"Alle wir haben sündigten, denn wir sind alle menschlich. Lassen Sie Ihre Sünden und in den Namen der Götter und der Kreuzfahrer, sie wird verziehen zu."

Alvis raised his head to look straight into Palmark's eyes.

"I murdered Sigurd of Chalphy."

The priest's blood froze.

"I was not just doing my duty. It wasn't a misunderstanding. I was behind everything. Father. I framed him, fabricated the evidence, and then, as he stood before me, expecting to be rewarded for his service to the kingdom, I burned him to ash.

"And worse than that, I took his wife as my own. I knew she was his when she begged to see him before his death. I don't know where she came from—that much is true, Father. I found her, and we fell in love, and I didn't know she was betrothed to another man until I saw how she reacted to Sigurd. But now I know. And now I understand the depths of my sins."

Palmark didn't say anything. He could only tremble in horror, his body frozen, as Alvis continued.

"Do I have anything to say for myself? Do I ask forgiveness from the beneficent Gods? No…not yet. Reverend, I ask for their vindication." Alvis stood up, his expressionless face seemingly carved from stone. "Everything I did, Father, I did for the good of the people. The deaths of Sigurd and his army will forever weigh upon my conscience. But they _had_ to die, Palmark! They knew too much! My plan _had_ to succeed! Because I wanted—_needed_ to save this land! The people have cried out under the thumb of men like Leptor and Langobalt for too long. Only under my leadership could Grandbell—could all of Jugdral—become a place where the smallfolk could live without oppression, without fear, where anyone could rise to power on their own merits. Only I could turn this land into a haven for true equality.

"To achieve that dream, I needed power—by any means necessary. And so I lied, I gave false testimony, and I spilled innocent blood." He stood up, then, still keeping those piercing, terrifying eyes on Palmark. "I'd like to say I have no regrets. But Sigurd's blood still cries to me from the ground. Perhaps it always will. This is why I ask the Gods for vindication, not absolution."

"W…what madness are you talking about?" For the first time, Palmark found the courage to speak. "Lord Alvis, you've earned only damnation! This is the most horrible crime since the days of Galle! You _must_ repent, my lord! It is the only way, lest the darkness of Hel take you! Tell the King and your wife what you have done, and accept whatever punishment they mete out, even if it is death. It is the only—"

"Thank you for the advice, Palmark, but it is too late for that. It would only throw Jugdral into chaos. My only hope now is to continue on the path I've set. I will rule this land justly and well, and that will be my vindication."

He saw the expression on Palmark's face. "And now you know too much, just like Sigurd. Are you afraid I'll strike you down as well?"

Palmark took a step back, eying the door—he knew flight was his only chance. He carried no magic tome to protect him, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to stop Alvis.

"Don't worry. If I was afraid of what you could do to me, I would never have made this confession in the first place."

"T…then why? Why are you making a mockery of me and my church?! Do you take this much pleasure in blasphemy, my lord?"

"Blasphemy? No, not at all. I don't have the greatest faith in the Gods, but I respect them. I've made this confession not to mock them, but…" He paused for a moment, thinking. "Perhaps…perhaps because I want to be stopped. Perhaps you will break the seal of confidentiality, and tell the world of my crimes. In that case, it is true that the Gods have judged me unfit to rule, and I deserve to be cast from the throne. But if not, and if you maintain your silence and keep your vows, then I deserve to keep the throne, and the crimes I have committed were justified for the good of the kingdom."

He turned away from Palmark. "In this case, then, the fate of Grandbell…perhaps all of Jugdral rests in your hands. Are you the sort of man who can break the vows of your Church? Go, then, and tell the world what you have heard. Let me hang as I deserve. Or will you keep the vows of your faith, even for a sinner like me? Would you never violate the Seal of Confidentiality, even on your own life? Are you as devoted to the vows of your church as the Crusader Blagi was? Then go, keep your silence, and let Hel take us both. A small price to pay for the salvation of this continent!"

He turned away, back to the tome he had discarded, as smoothly and calmly as if their conversation had never taken place. "In any case, Reverend, I thank you—sincerely—for your time. Whatever your decision may be, my soul will be at peace."

He did not look back. Neither did Palmark, who himself turned and fled Alvis' chambers as quickly as his old feet could take him.

It was obviously not a happy parting. But it would not be their last.

_::Linear Notes::_

"Hel" is not a misspelling. It's from Norse mythology, and is what our word "Hell" is derived from.


	5. A Kaiser's Confession

**The Confessor**

**Chapter 5: A Kaiser's Confession**

What time was it? What day was it? What year was it? Bishop Palmark didn't know the answer to any of these questions, and honestly, he didn't care, either. His death was coming soon, and he knew he deserved it.

He rocked his emaciated frame back and forth on the soiled bed in the corner of his tiny, dirty cell, mouthing the words of Edda's rosary over and over again. He had no idea how many times he'd repeated it. He only knew he had been saying it once every morning, noon, and night since he had been imprisoned in the winter of 776. Was it a thousand? Ten thousand? However large the number, it wouldn't be enough. It never would be enough. For it was due to his own cowardice that he had been locked up here, and that all of Jugdral was suffering even more than he was.

He could have stopped all of this. It would have been easy. He'd needed to do nothing more than tell the world what now-Kaiser Alvis had confessed to him. He would have prevented the tyrant's rise to power and rescued the land from slavery and oppression. But he hadn't. He didn't have the courage.

He lied to himself at first. As he watched Alvis' coronation as Kaiser, he told himself, "No matter what, I cannot violate the Seal of the Confessional." If he had been honest, however, he would have told himself it was because he was a coward. In his heart of hearts, he was afraid of what would happen to him. Maybe Alvis would have silenced him, breaking his promise to accept Palmark's decision. Maybe the kingdom would have been thrown into chaos, and the confessor blamed for it. So many maybes, and Palmark was afraid of them all.

So he'd kept his mouth shut and done nothing but watch as Kaiser Alvis extended his dominion over Jugdral. At first, it wasn't so bad, and Palmark wondered if he had made the right decision. Alvis appointed capable and honest officials, erased discrimination and racism where he found it, and paid close attention to the governance of the entire land. Palmark himself had been appointed Bishop, for after Father Claude's death, he was one of the few clergymen with a sufficient degree of seniority to replace him. Though Palmark always repeated to himself that Alvis had never repented and could never be forgiven, and only the Seal of Confession protected him and his reign, the bishop wondered if he would have turned Alvis in even without being bound by his vows. The kingdom was prospering, as was Palmark—the higher you went up Edda's hierarchy, the better you were paid, and Palmark was fairly high up.

Then, about six years ago—on the tenth birthday of Crown Prince Yurius, in fact—everything had gone wrong.

The Lopt Sect had emerged from its hiding places all over the continent, and Kaiser Alvis did nothing to stop them. Indeed, he handed his entire government over to them. They conducted their disgusting rituals with impunity and reduced the people of every nation on Jugdral—not just Grandbell—to slavery. Men and women were worked like dogs, having lost every right they once enjoyed, and the children…

Palmark shuddered and stuttered, momentarily forgetting his place on the rosary when he recalled what the followers of Lopt did to the children. The blood games, the sacrifices, and the burnings…

Perhaps he should have tried to stop it then. Revealed the terrible truth behind the reign of Kaiser Alvis I, and at least made an attempt to topple the tyrant. But at that point, it would have done no good. The Lopt and their servants were too strong, and somehow Prince Yurius himself had become the true power in Barhara, assisted by his dark priesthood. Alvis was, ironically enough, the only thing standing between him and total domination.

The Church of Edda certainly wasn't. That was why Palmark had ended up in this cell. The moment the Lopt had emerged from hiding, he and his Church had protested vehemently to Alvis, but the Kaiser would not listen, proclaiming "religious tolerance" throughout the realm. Ever since then Palmark and the rest of the clergy had tried to oppose the darkness as well as they could, but it was a futile struggle. For a decade the Lopt gained more and more power and converts, while Edda lost a bit more every day, through either apostasy or "disappearances."

And in 776, the government shed even the pretense of tolerance for the old religion. When the rebels rose up in Tilnanogue, the church of Edda was blamed, and all of its clergy and hierarchy—including Palmark—were rounded up and imprisoned. Most had been thrown into this dungeon in Chalphy, and over the course of the year most had died as a result of their horrible treatment. Only Palmark was left, and he knew he would be joining his brothers in the faith soon.

He was so consumed by his chanting that he didn't hear the door to his cell open, and only when he felt the rough hand of a cruel guard 'round his arm did he break his reverie.

"Get up, scum," said the Dark Mage harshly.

Palmark sighed. A few years ago, he would have been afraid, but after facing death for so long it no longer held any power over him. "Am I to be executed?" His voice was mild and calm, though starvation had made it weak.

"Not today. Kaiser Alvis wants to see you."

"T…the Kaiser? He's here?"

"Yes. Chalphy is where your little rebel friends will die, burned to ashes with the power of our Kaiser's Fala Flame! I imagine he wants to gloat about it to you. Now get up!"

Not resisting, Palmark got to his feet unsteadily, and the guard had to help him out of the dungeon to Chalphy's grand throne room.

There, the Kaiser was waiting.

Alvis I sat alone on the massive, gilded throne, leaning his head on his right hand, his brow furrowed and his mouth turned down into a frown.

"Leave us," he said, in a deep, commanding voice. "Immediately."

"Of course, your majesty!"

The Dark Mage bowed and made a quick exit, shutting the gigantic double doors of the throne room behind him.

Palmark almost fell over—not only was he tired and half-starved, but also very old, well over sixty. With as much strength as he could muster, though, he willed his failing body to stay upright. For the first time in a year, he was filled with hope—if the rebels had made it this far, the Lopt Sect must be losing power. Even if he died here, the reign of Alvis would die not long after. That was just enough to keep him on his feet, at least long enough to show the Kaiser the sort of defiance he should have shown seventeen years ago.

It might not be an easy task, for the Kaiser looked every bit the part. Alvis had grown a great deal since he had ascended to the throne. While he had always been quite a tall man, as a magic user his frame was slight compared to most knights. That had very much changed. He seemed to be almost twice as large as he'd been when Palmark had first met him. His legs were thick and strong, his arms muscled and powerful, his chest wide and sturdy. Alvis might have been almost as physically powerful as the Crusader Neir had been in his prime, and he was as well-armored.

The Kaiser's entire body, aside from his head, was covered in the finest suit of armor Palmark had ever seen. It was pure silver, the light from the torchstands on either side of the throne glinting off of it beautifully. It was far thicker and heavier than any armor worn by Cavaliers, or even Armor Knights and Generals. It would surely provide an almost impregnable defense against any magical or physical attack, at least when the helmet was equipped.

Alvis wasn't wearing it at the moment, allowing Palmark a good look at his face. The Kaiser had been very handsome once, his aquiline features making him almost beautiful. Time had not been kind to him. Along with the rest of his body, his face seemed much tougher and harsher: The skin was a bit darker and more leathery; which made sense given that Alvis had spent much of his reign fighting alongside his men and even working alongside the people, determined never to be called lazy or a coward. The cast of his face now seemed utilitarian rather than aesthetic. His hair, however, was as red and vibrant as it ever was, unlike Palmark's, which was now as grey as the robes Bishops like him wore.

His eyes, however…they no longer seemed as piercing as driven as they used to be. Now they seemed tired and sad, just like Sigurd's before his death. Palmark felt a twinge of pity for the man before him.

But only a twinge.

"It is an honor to be called before you, Kaiser Alvis," he coughed, allowing sarcasm to seep into every word. "Do you hope to watch me die? I'm afraid your dungeons have done most of that work already. I simply won't be able to give you a good show."

Alvis shook his head.

"What, then?" Palmark felt a pain in his chest and was wracked with a sudden, whooping cough. "A-another confession? Another false confession, another false show of piety? All while you drag this country deeper into the darkness?"

Alvis nodded. "Yes, actually. I do want a confession."

Palmark laughed, a harsh and ugly sound. "You don't deserve one. You won't fool me twice, Alvis, I—"

"Hear it anyways, Palmark. I want you to know this: You were right."

"Oh, do you expect me to believe that? Now, after all the misery you've put me through? After all the misery you've inflicted upon Jugdral?"

"No…no, I suppose I can't. But, please, Father, listen to me anyways…" His head sank, and when he looked at Palmark again, there were tears in his eyes. The Kaiser of the Empire, the most powerful man on the continent…was crying. And that stunned Palmark. At least, long enough for Alvis to give his confession.

"I'm a failure. A wretched failure, as a ruler, a husband, and a father. You…you were correct, Reverend. There is no way to build a kingdom free of oppression on the blood of the innocent. I wanted to bring peace, prosperity, and equality to people…I've instead delivered them into the hands of demons. I…I truly loved Diadora, with all my heart and soul. Yet I couldn't save her from the darkness. I loved my children, little Yuria and Yurius…yet they were both taken from me. Yuria…only now have I seen her again, and Yurius…is lost forever, his soul consumed by the Adversary. Everything I love is gone, everything I tried to accomplish has come to nothing…"

He stifled a sob. "Why? Why…no, there's no need to ask. I know why. It's punishment for my sins, for all the people I trampled over, all of those I deemed "sacrifices for the greater good." The Gods have passed their judgment, and found my excuses wanting. I deserve every bit of the misery I have endured, but my children…the children…I would endure a thousand damnations in Hel to spare them what I have gone through. Would that the Gods have simply taken me instead of forcing my entire country to pay!"

"Y…Your Majesty…" Palmark, despite his resentment of the Kaiser, could not bring himself to condemn him. Not now. He never would have expected it, but Alvis was genuinely contrite, genuinely repentant. Even if it was too late, far too late, Palmark could not bring himself to condemn a repentant sinner—a kindred soul.

"Bah…enough of this." Alvis shook his head, and when he looked at Palmark again the tears had disappeared from his eyes. They now held only determination—and resignation. "Thanks for hearing my confession, Reverend. But there's one more thing I want you to do."

"Alvis…?"

The Kaiser raised himself from his throne, his enchanted silver plate mail clattering as he did so. For some reason, he went to his left, kneeling before a section of the stone wall behind his throne. He ran a gauntleted hand over it, stopped on a small stone which seemed to protrude slightly, and pressed it down.

To Palmark's surprise, with a whoosh of air the section of the wall slid down into the floor, revealing a secret passage behind the throne! Even more surprising, there were people in there! A silver-haired young maiden—very beautiful—was crouched down there, her arms wrapped protectively around a small group of frightened children. They looked at the massive Kaiser with fear, while the girl had a hopeful look in her eyes.

"Don't be afraid, kids. No-one is going to sacrifice you to the Lopt. We'll make sure of that."

"K…Kaiser Alvis?" Hope bloomed inside of Palmark's heart. Could Alvis really be turning away from the path of evil?

He nodded. "Bishop Palmark, take the children and get out of here."

The old man's hopes were coming true, but he still couldn't believe what he was hearing—after everything he'd experienced, he couldn't believe it, not just yet. "P…pardon me? You mean you're setting them free!?"

"That's right. Yurius' people will be here soon from Barhara. You must leave immediately!"

It was true. Alvis was finally taking a stand against the darkness upon the land. And for the first time, he seemed like the ruler he should have been."Y, yes, Your Majesty!" Even though his body was wracked by starvation and privation, Palmark stood tall, and the children could hear both strength and faith in his voice. "You have my sincerest blessings! This is the first step to—"

"No, no salvation for me. But for the next generation…maybe. Palmark, I also want you to hold on to this."

Alvis reached to another section of wall nearby and pulled out a stone this time, revealing a small hole. He reached inside and drew out a hidden sword. A sword Palmark would have recognized anywhere.

Roughly the same size and shape as a regular longsword, its unearthly craftsmanship and aura of magical power proved it was no ordinary weapon. Its blade was alabaster-white and seemed to glow, meeting the golden hilt of the sword at a crossguard which consisted of an amber gem framed by a golden circle. Within that gem pulsed a spark of pure white light. Simply looking at it filled Palmark with hope and purpose, and seemed to heal his broken, hunger-ravaged body. There was no mistaking it—this was a Holy Weapon.

Still thinking he was in some sort of fever dream, that he had been granted a vision of hope that would disappear when he woke up, he stammered, "B, but, isn't this the..."

Alvis nodded grimly. "You served under Sigurd, correct? His son, Celice, will arrive here soon. I think you know what to do with this."

Palmark reached out and touched the weapon—and once he did, all doubt fled his mind. Even though he was unable to wield it, simply holding it was enough to banish his uncertainty, convince him that his hopes had been fulfilled, that Alvis was true, and that this was reality, a glorious reality. And he was filled with purpose, purpose he had not felt for his entire life.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, in a strong, firm voice that belonged to a man half his age. "I believe I do."

"Good. And…please, don't speak of where or whom you got this from."

"As part of the Seal of Confession, I will remain silent, Your Majesty."

Alvis allowed himself a smile. "Then get going... And keep those children safe!"

"Yes, my lord!" Keeping the sword in a death-grip, Palmark rushed into the tunnel. "Follow me, children! We haven't much time!"

Neither the boys nor the girls hesitated. "Y-yes sir!" After they'd taken a few steps down the passageway, however, they noticed one person wasn't with them—the silver-haired girl. "Milady," Palmark asked, not knowing the girl's name or who she was, "Aren't you coming with us?"

She shook her head. "N-not yet. I need to talk to the Kaiser. Please…"

"Mister," said a boy, tugging on the hem of Palmark's dirty robe, "they'll be here soon!"

"Yes, you're right. Let's go, children!"

The confessor turned away and headed back down the secret passage, his new wards following behind him.

And for the first time in seventeen years, he could see a light in the distance.

_::Linear Notes::_

"Kaiser Alvis" is a bit of self-indulgence on my part. In the first drafts of this fic, I really laid it thick with the fan-German; for instance, Duke Victor was originally "Herzog Victor von Velthomer." I thought that was a little overboard, so I toned it down and kept the German strictly to the "old language" of Edda's rituals. However, I REALLY wanted to see a Kaiser class, since Hardin was already an Emperor, so I made Alvis a Kaiser. :D Also, I use "Cavalier" rather than "Social Knight" even though I'm trying to remain loyal to the original FE4 translation patch. The reasoning behind that is…well, let's face it, "Social Knight" does not make any sense. At all. XD


	6. Final: A Confessor's Confession

**Final Chapter: A Confessor's Confession**

"H, hurry up!" Palmark huffed, stumbling over a rock as he ran east as fast as his wasted legs would take him. "We've no time to rest!"

His wards were not doing much better. They were trying their best as well, but all were on the verge of exhaustion. "Reverend," one girl sobbed, "we can't go any farther!"

Palmark looked ahead of him, into the distance. She was right: this was likely as far as they _could_ go. The secret passage out of Chalphy opened on the east side, and they'd been running in that direction as fast as they could, for Lopt forces were fighting with the rebels in the south, stationed in the west, and advancing from the north. To the east of Chalphy, however, was only a peninsula jutting into the sea. It would be suicide to jump off the steep cliffs into the water below.

Suicide might be preferable to what was approaching, however. "Those dark mages are coming for us," another boy cried. "We're all going to die!"

Palmark bit his tongue to keep himself from cursing when he looked back. Rushing up behind them, and growing larger as they closed the distance, were the distinctive black-hooded forms of a dozen Dark Mages. Someone must have discovered their escape soon after they'd left the castle. The shadows the warlocks cast beneath them seemed to flow and expand as they moved, as if they belonged to beings larger than men. From those shadows, strange streams of blue and purple energy floated into the air. As Palmark and the children edged closer to the cliff's edge, and their pursuers steadily advanced closer and closer towards them, Palmark could see that those streams of energy were in the shapes of screaming faces, and a cacophony of agonized howls and moans was carried over to him from the wind.

Palmark had no idea how Dark magic worked, but old superstitions stated they harnessed the misery of the damned souls in Gehenna to lash out against the living. Perhaps those superstitions were correct.

He looked down helplessly at the mighty weapon in his hands. Though simply holding it filled him with strength—he wouldn't have been able to make it this far without it—he couldn't actually use it. Aside from the fact that he had absolutely no training in swordsmanship, the sword itself seemed impossible to wield. When he held it before him and tried to take an experimental swing, it took almost all of his energy to move it through the air, as if it was a blunt knife cutting through molasses. The holy blade would only obey someone with the proper holy blood. Such a man could wield it as if it were lighter than a feather. Unfortunately, Palmark was not such a man.

"Oh, Gods," he mouthed silently to himself as the children gathered behind him, "Please grant us a miracle…"

They did.

Palmark heard the flapping of two pairs of wings from the south—one hard and leathery, the other soft and feathered. The Dark Mages heard it too, and they turned as well, readying their fell magic to deal with the newcomers.

It did them no good.

A flash of white soared into the air, blotting out the sun for a moment, and Palmark could make out the silhouette of a Falcoknight in the sky. It descended, smashing down onto the group of warlocks as the screaming ghosts beneath them rose into the air. The warrior was far faster than those spirits—they chased after her, but dissipated before they could catch her, and she had left three servants of Loputousu dead and bleeding on the ground, throats pierced by an enchanted weapon which could strike twice.

They had been sent into disarray by the sudden attack, not expecting any prey more dangerous than helpless children and an equally helpless Bishop. This left them wide open for a vicious assault from the Falcoknight's companion—a woman with long brown hair riding a dragon and wielding a glowing golden lance. She smashed down upon the Lopt fanatics, her mount slaying several with its vicious teeth and claws. Before they could respond, she dispatched the rest with a few thrusts of her divine weapon, its powerful enchantment literally blowing them to pieces as it struck. Palmark could hardly believe his eyes—in under a minute, these two women had reduced an entire squad of the most elite magic-users of the Lopt sect to scattered giblets across the ground.

It was a horrible sight, though he knew those two were on the side of justice. He would have shielded the eyes of the children if he could have. However, judging by the impassive expressions on their faces, they had seen worse, much worse, during their time in Lopt captivity. And for the two fliers themselves, it was just business as usual.

"Fee! Look what we have here," called the Dragon Lord. "Civilians!"

"Looks like we made it just in time, Altenna!" she chirped happily. "You guys alright?"

"Y-yes, we're saved!" gasped Palmark, and the children behind him cheered wildly. The battle must have been going very well for the rebels if they could afford to spare two of their own for a rescue mission. "Please, take these kids to safety," Palmark raised a hand to grasp at his chest. The pain had been growing steadily all day, and though holding on to the holy Tailfing had caused it to recede for a bit, it had now returned.

His rescuers didn't notice. "Of course," said Altenna. "All of you, come here and get on the backs of this dragon and Pegasus! We'll fly you back to your homes!" She looked at Palmark curiously, who hadn't moved. "Don't you want to come too?"

"N, no," he replied. "The children come first. Besides, the leader of your army is Celice, right? Please tell him to come here. I…I must give this to him." He held out the sword to Altenna, who recognized it immediately as a weapon comparable to her own—and one she couldn't wield either.

"Yes, Reverend. He'll come right away!"

Palmark breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he watched the two women take off, their new cargo clinging tightly to their mounts. He turned his eyes back west, towards Chalphy castle. The battle was inching closer and closer to Alvis' stronghold; the rebels seemed to have destroyed the Lopt forces below the river quite handily and had surrounded the castle. They hadn't began the assault yet, though, for they were waiting for their leader. That leader was galloping towards him right now, mounted on a large, swift white courser. Lady Altenna had passed on his message quite promptly.

Palmark didn't just bow—he literally prostrated himself on the ground before Celice as the rebel leader approached. To Palmark, this blue-haired, somewhat feminine young man was more than a mere "rabble-rouser," as the authorities would have it, but the reincarnation of _Baldo der Kreuzfahrer_ and living proof that the beneficent Gods did exist, and that his faith had not been in vain. For those reasons, Celice deserved as much respect as he could possibly give.

Celice, however, didn't realize this. Upon seeing Palmark lying on the ground, he immediately dismounted and went to attend the bishop, thinking he'd been injured. "Reverend, are you alright?"

There were tears in Palmark's eyes as he got to his knees. "Your Highness! Oh, how I've waited for you to come! I held out as best I could in order to give you this." With trembling hands, he lifted the holy blade Alvis had given him and held it out towards Celice. "Here... it belongs to you."

Celice could tell it wasn't an ordinary sword from its magical aura, but he didn't realize its true nature until he actually reached out and held it.

"W, what is this!?" The moment his fingers touched the grip, the sword glowed, and that golden glow spread across Celice's entire body. Palmark could tell the youth was filled with immense, almost unimaginable strength, far more than he had gained by touching the blade. This was the power the divine blood of Baldo conferred to His rightful heir.

"It's the Holy Tailfing," Palmark said with satisfaction, "heirloom of the Chalphy family."

Celice took a deep breath, allowing the incredible power to flow through him. Finally, after several moments, he'd recovered enough to ask, "...how did you get it?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I gave a solemn oath not to speak of where it came from."

Celice nodded. "I see... Well, that's okay. I'm just grateful to have it." He looked again at the incredible weapon he held. "So this is the Tailfing...I can feel the power swelling from it..."

Palmark felt another pain in his chest—slightly sharper, this time, but he ignored it. Instead, he encouraged Celice. "Your Highness, you must reclaim Chalphy Castle at once. The townsfolk have waited far too long for this day to come."

Celice smiled. "I'll do that, reverend. With this holy sword in hand, I've nothing to fear now!"

Palmark smiled back, his life's purpose finally completed. He was just about ready to wave Celice goodbye…

When a wave of pain suddenly crashed through his body from his chest, robbing his legs of their strength and sending him collapsing to the ground.

"Reverend?!" Celice cried, shocked and concerned. He immediately rushed back to Palmark and knelt by his side.

The bishop coughed, clutching his chest. "Ugh! F-forgive me, your Highness. Please, don't worry about me. I…I was dying when I first left the castle."

"No, we'll get help!"

"T-too late, my lord. Starvation, disease, and my own age…those would have killed me in the dungeons of Chalphy. Only the sword gave me the strength to carry on, and now…"

"I can't just let you die, Bishop Palmark!"

"Th…there's nothing more you can do." The pain grew stronger, and Palmark's vision blurred. "Please…just grant me one request, I beg you…"

"W-what is it?"

"H…hear my confession…"

"Confession?" Celice's brow furrowed. "I…I'm sorry, Reverend. I never learned much religion."

"It…it doesn't matter. Please! Just listen to me! That's all…"

"I…alright…"

Palmark gasped again, and his body jerked and shook. Celice grabbed him and held him gently, keeping his upper body above the ground. This was enough to allow Palmark to begin.

_Segnen Sie mich Vater, den ich habe gesündigt_…

Celice didn't understand the words. He simply closed his eyes and said, "I'm listening."

Palmark coughed, knowing these would be his last words. "Oh, Gods…Oh, Celice…please forgive me. I was…never…a true man of faith. I was…always cowardly…always weak. I couldn't save Victor, and watched him die…I couldn't save your f…father, Sigurd, and watched him die…and I…gah! I did nothing to stop Alvis, e…even when he told me his crimes, even when I could have p-prevented all of this. What a worthless life I've led! Gods forgive me…please…forgive me…"

"Your Holiness," said Celice, unsure of what the proper course of action would be here, and not even understanding why Palmark thought he could have stopped any of this. "I don't know what happened in the past, or what you blame yourself for, but…you can rest at ease. Now that you've given me the Tyrfing, my friends and I will put everything right again. So, don't worry. Please rest easy…"

"R-rest easy? Gods above, Holy Crusaders, how can I? After how I've failed…"

"Well, you succeeded now, at least." Celice gripped the Tailfing and unsheathed it, allowing its divine radiance to spill over Palmark, suffusing him with hope as he looked at the glorious sight. "With this blade, I'll definitely defeat the Lopt and bring peace back to this land. Let that be your repentance, Your Excellency. I'm sure the Gods will accept it!"

"Oh, Lord Celice…" Palmark's eyes fluttered he was at the end of his strength. Still holding the Tailfing with his right hand, Celice gently and reverently laid Palmark's head down on the ground with his left. Despite this, Palmark never once took his eyes off the sword as he said his last words, filled with as much desperate hope as he had left:

"Celice, you must win! Make good on my penance, and promise me…that my life…was not in vain."

He coughed again, and his eyes closed for the last time.

Celice said nothing. He bowed his head reverently, and placed Palmark's motionless hands over his chest. Then, he mounted his white steed, and holding the Tailfing over his head, spurred it onwards towards Chalphy, towards the final reckoning with Alvis…and after that, with the Lopt.

He would indeed make good on his promise. And one humble, undistinguished bishop—a cowardly man in life who had finally shown courage at its end—would indeed be able to rest in peace.

The Sacrament of Confession had, at long last, fulfilled its purpose.

_The End_


End file.
